Banksy, consummated

My last trip to Bristol, just five days ago, was a disaster, at least with respect to the original purpose of coming. The Banksy exhibition that I was interested in has grown in popularity beyond anyone's expectations and attracts ungodly crowds. We were turned away at the tail end of a long queue because the museum would close before we could reach its doors.

Last night, I was back in town, for one day only and with the sole objective of seeing the show. This morning, while everyone else was supposed to go to work, I joined the crowds anew. I arrived a bit later than originally planned but at a time I thought would get me in comfortably before the trip back to London, but what I saw quickly subdued my optimism. The end of the line couldn't be seen from the museum's entrance. It turned out to be very near where it was five days ago. The museum didn't open for another hour.

Soon, there was a commotion and with a shiver the line came alive and starting moving – slowly, in fits and starts, but determinedly and unidirectionally. People moved with it, but to most it seemed like a distraction. They were reading newspapers, having coffee, playing cards, or chatting animatedly. Some knitted, hopeful they would finish a scarf in a day. Those with comfort in mind had brought camping chairs and stretched their legs while everyone else stood. Several groups of street musicians entertained the masses and earned a quick pound. And every two or three minutes, the line jerked forward another five meters. The "Two hours to go" sign was quickly reached.

Things turned for the worse after that. The sun shone stronger and stronger, and a strange torpor fell over those waiting. Progress slowed down and seemed to come to a halt. The museum in sight, I nevertheless started to fear I would have to abandon my mission yet another time lest I should miss my bus.

My fretting was unnecessary. After nearly four hours, I reached the doors and entered the coveted halls just in time, though I had to hurry through the exhibit. What was there? Well, irony and self-deprecation in copious amounts, irreverence towards the art establishment, but also lots of creativity and talent. One room showed a staging of his studio. Stencils outlining his famous images were scattered on the floors and projects from hastily sketched idea to the photo of the result.

Another room was full of original images, graffiti on canvas, full of sarcasm and hidden wisdom. I liked the two malnourished children standing on a landfill in an unnamed third-world country. One of them wears a t-shirt that was undoubtedly distributed by a charity organization. I hate Mondays, it said, but what is a Western Monday to the grim existence of a child with no future? I had been a bit suspicious about the street confined to an Edwardian museum, but this worked, and his subversiveness remained intact. I could see him have his gallery selling gentrified graffiti-on-canvas, while he was out spraying the real deal on walls, illegally.

The exhibition was smoothly integrated in the museum, and most rooms showed what they always show, local history, ancient history, natural history, and art, but there was a hidden twist. The floor dedicated to paintings had Banksy's take on masterpieces sprinkled throughout. Mary with an iPod, Des Glaneuses with one of the grain pickers cut out and sitting on the frame, taking a smoke break and, hilariously, a Damian Hirst Dot Painting, Improved by adding a rat with a paint roller painting the dots over in gray.

The official exhibition brochure calls Banksy "one of the region's most overrated artists", a valuation his is obviously proud of and massively cracked up about. One of his paintings shows a cartoon-style stick figure looking down to the bottom right of the image. Above the little dude is a speech bubble reading "You have got to be kidding me...", and off the bottom of the frame dangles a price tag of £10,000. I have no doubt someone would buy this in an instant. But for all his success, for all the hype surrounding him, I can totally see him (or her, who knows) sitting at home and laughing his/her ass off about all the craze and about all the nutters that queue for four hours to see his show.

What was clear from even a quick run through the museum is that Banksy is a highly talented artist who deserves big exhibitions. How this might happen in light of his desire for anonymity is the big question. I hope he will come to London at some point, taking over the Turbine Hall or even Battersea Power Station. Until then, I'm happy to have seen the exhibition, even if I had to rush through in thirty minutes. It was a monumental event.